


A Band of Merry Folks

by Doceo_Percepto



Series: Bendy's Murderous Adventure Across Moominvalley [27]
Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Nothing really happens here actually, Other, Psychological Trauma, Snufkin wanders, and comes across some familiar faces, that tag applies to Happy and Mama, that want to do bad things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-14 19:52:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18058973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doceo_Percepto/pseuds/Doceo_Percepto
Summary: You come across a group of deranged lunatics. They're interested in you.





	A Band of Merry Folks

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Mama Foxter’s Week of Wonders](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16066856) by [Sp00py](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sp00py/pseuds/Sp00py). 



> Follows the idea set forth in Mama's Week of Wonders that Mama is part of the nest now. Because I am in love with that idea.

You are a sociable Snufkin - more than most, at least. You have a few places tucked away, here and there across the map and off the map: places to where your legs sometimes unconsciously tread. There is a rich warmth in your chest at smells familiar and fond; smiles bright and soft as ever. The home and hearth call to you sometimes, yes. Never enough, however, to tear you from the pull of the wilderness. Not for long can you be held away from fresh air, novel sights, and the brambling path-less path.

This is why you are far from any of your cozy haunts now. Why you are immersed in a new wild of draping white flowers, whose richness fills your lungs and livens your blood. What a place to find! You have to decide whether you want to share this wonder, or if it is to be kept a secret locked deep in your eyes.

You know how to decide such things. You’ve encountered the same question before, for many sights. Sometimes, you share. Sometimes, you keep them a secret. But always you carry them with you, in a dinged-up sketchbook.

This sketchbook you pull out of your cloak. With a knife-whittled pencil, you begin to sketch the waterfalls of flowers, wishing with a deep ache that you could capture their brilliant ivory through the smudged paper and charcoal pencil. But you make do. An hour drifts by, and then another. The waving flowers whisper overhead, sunlight striping your page.

At last, the drawing is finished. You skim your fingers along the rough edge thoughtfully. This forest, with its ornate and unusual flowers - this is something you will keep to yourself, you decide. A picture captured in a sketchbook, until one day you let the pages soak into some creek far away from any people, so that its secrets may be truly buried.

You smile contentedly. Yes. You’re standing and tucking the sketchbook into your cloak when your skin jumps. A shadow shifts in the corner of your eyes - no - there’s someone there.

Watching you.

The thought flits in _how long has he been there?_ Five minutes? An hour? Gooseflesh prickles up your arms.

Having been noticed, the person steps out.

He is a Snufkin, but he smells of chemicals and of Joxters. His cloak hangs over an emaciated frame. Its green is stained with black. He stands oddly on long, thin legs, and his eyes… his eyes scare you the most. They’re deranged. Bright. Eager. They aren’t dissimilar to Joxter eyes.

“Hello,” he greets, smiling. Swaying. “You were sketching something.”

He is bad. You feel deep in your bones that he is bad. It’s very much the way you feel when you see a diseased animal wasting to death, patches of fur missing and clumps of drool dripping from its mouth. He is not safe to be around.

“Goodbye,” you say, and turn. You slip through the underbrush, but he slips after you.

“You’re heading towards my papa,” he says. He walks as quiet as the breeze, somehow; even trained and clever as you are in the ways of the forest, you barely hear him follow.

“Goodbye,” you say more firmly.

“I just thought I’d warn you,” he giggles. “Not that it matters.”

“Leave me alone.”

“But you’re pretty.”

The words send chills down your spine. You aren’t pretty. You’re just… you. But he slips up to your side. You flinch away; he darts after and links fingers with you. They’re bony and cold. You yank your hand away. “Stop.” It’s a tight, nervous word.

“You’re small.” His cadaverous fingers grasp at your overcoat, start tugging it up.

You yelp and leap back. In a flash you have drawn out a glinting little knife - your whittling knife. You have never drawn it on a person before and it seems so pathetic now, so little and useless.

The Snufkin loosely grins. There’s a tremor in his body that has you on edge. You wonder if he is diseased after all, if something’s eating at his brain and killing him.

“Bendy won’t be happy if you cut me,” he says, almost like a child threatening to tattle.

“Bendy…?” You try, but the Snufkin devolves into hyena laughter.

“Happy,” he rasps, like it’s the funniest thing ever. “Won’t be - Won’t be Happy, hah-“

You take a step back.

He stops laughing. “Because my name is Happy,” he explains, like it’s absolutely crucial you understand. “I’m Happy. So Bendy can’t be me-“

Another step. You’re shaking, the tip of your knife vibrating like a note that can’t be held any longer. Its melody draws his gaze.

“Only he’s allowed to hurt me,” the Snufkin-called-Happy says. “See?” He scrunches his cloak in his fists and lifts it up to his chin.

He’s wearing nothing underneath. His body is ruined. The flesh is flayed with stripes of red, and riddled with swollen bruises and punctures that can’t be anything but bite marks. Something has _maimed_ him. Something much, much larger than a mumrik.

“See?” Happy repeats.

You choose a direction at random and run.

“Wait-“ Happy skitters after you.

“Get away from me!”

Happy laughs, loud and raucous. It’s some game, you suspect - you running, him trailing. You veer several times, trying to throw him off, but then he abruptly appears in front of you, goes “boo!” and you’re wheeling in another direction.

Your nerves at this point are frayed; you want nothing at all but to escape this myriad of white flowers.

As you’re out of breath and at the end of your rope, you nearly trip right over a large bundle of dark-colored fabric. You sprawl to the ground and eat dirt before scrambling up and whipping around. (Your precious whittling knife, at this point, is gone).

The fabric is breathing. A small tuft of dark orange hair is peeking out from under it.

“You need to help me!” You cry.

The fabric moves, rustles.

A mumrik sits up, one with very long dark whiskers, and blankets gathered over his shoulders. A Joxter. These are creatures you know to be afraid of, but despite your already pounding heart, you feel no fresh fear at this individual. He resembles the Snufkin chasing you, there is no doubt. But his eyes are not bright with manic energy - they are dull, blank. He’s settled like a cat in his bed of moss, and his gaze passes over you slowly. His whiskers droop.

“Another one,” he says mournfully. “Oh my love… I wish you hadn’t come this way.”

Miffed, you draw back. At least he seems sane, compared to Happy. “Then show me out,” you retort.

“It’s too late now,” the Joxter sighs. “I can smell Happy on you, my dear. I’m afraid you’ve become part of the story.”

“Story? This isn’t-“ You’re wasting your time. The longer you stay, the more you realize this mumrik is deranged too. Is there something in the water here? Something that spawns madness?

“It is a story,” the mumrik retorts with no energy. His head dips. His hair is turned up like fox ears, but his eyes look so lost. “It’s not a happy one. Not for people like you or I. But you can’t escape, not once they’ve foun-“

Happy leaps from the brush and wraps his arms around you. “Gotcha!” He declares.

You go stiff.

Happy croons, “Mama! Mama, I found a Snufkin for us. Isn’t he pretty?”

They know each other. No, that shouldn't be surprising - they look related.

“He is pretty,” the Joxter says, as if he wishes you weren’t.

You rip out of Happy’s clutches again and dust off your coat. Of course, you don’t mind dust and dirt at all, but you feel absurdly as if you’re going to catch Happy’s madness if he keeps touching you.

“I’m not,” you snap.

The Joxter - did Happy call him mama? - looks sadly at you. “I wish I could help you to escape. But if escape were possible-” he huffs a wry laugh.

“I don’t need your help.” You also don’t want to listen to this for a second more. You turn and -

 

“Don’t go that way,” the Joxter called Mama says sharply, his eyes flaring with a brief but hot passion. You pause, only because he sounds so scared. Mama elaborates, “The Joxter is that way. He won’t kill you. He’ll draw it out.”

Is he telling the truth?

“Go that way-“ he points. His gaze is solemn, defeated. “This is all I can do to help you. Bendy’s that way, my love. Just let it end quick.”

“Don’t ruin the game!” Happy gripes.

“Bendy?” You echo.

“The demon. If you play your cards right, you can get him to kill you fast. Trust me, dear, it’s better that way- It’s the only way to escape the story, if you’re lucky-”

“Maa-maa,” Happy stomps his foot. “Don’t make me tell on you!”

Mama’s eyes snap to Happy, and you see absolute _terror_. That, if nothing else, convinces you that this Joxter is sincere. He’s older than Happy (Happy’s father? Mother?) but he shakes at Happy’s childish suggestion, as if it’s a matter of life or death.

“I’m sorry, Happy,” Mama replies carefully.

Happy’s frown disappears into another wide grin. “Just don’t do it again, Mama!” He beams at you. “So, Snufkin, where you wanna go?”

In neither of those directions, it seems. You’re not going to give yourself up, not for anything. Wordlessly, you turn back south, the way you had come. You need not travel this way.

“Wait,” Mama scrambles to his feet. You ignore him and keep walking.

“Snufkin-“ you hate the way he says your name, soft and gentle as if he cares immensely for you, despite the fact you have never before met and certainly don’t know each other. “Please don’t go that way,” he pleads.

You keep on.

“I will have to tell the Joxter,” Mama moans. “They will still get you in the end; it’s only drawing it out, dear, just… go to Bendy, make it quick. Please.”

Bendy the demon. You still wonder if that particular part of Mama’s story is a joke or some hallucination of his, but you don’t intend on hanging around to find out.

You duck away between some bushes and trot away. Happy follows you like the shadow of death. He makes your skin crawl and you wish he would leave. You don’t know what you’ve walked into, but you will walk right out. You must. There’s something here, something evil and worse than Happy and you don’t want to meet it.

“I’m glad you chose this way,” Happy notes, trotting along next to you. “I love games. I didn’t really appreciate them until Bendy and the Joxter, but I was really missing out. They showed me all kinds of fun games.”

You can shake him off sooner or later, you’re sure. You have to.

“Hunting Snufkins is one of my favorite games,” he continues on. “Though Mama is the one who really found you. See, he can smell the best.”

Joxters often could. It prickles to think that gentle-looking Joxter was the one who had drawn this insane Snufkin’s attention to you. No Joxter could be trusted. You just hadn’t thought the same about Snufkins.

“Once,” Happy says, “Mama smelled a Snufkin and he didn’t tell anyone. Papa caught his scent later, out in the woods, but it was too late. He came back and taught Mama a lesson and now Mama is pretty good about letting someone know when he sniffs out a Snufkin.”

“Please go away.”

“Although to tell the truth-“ Happy lowers his voice to a whisper, “I think sometimes he doesn’t tell still. He’s naughty. Papa is still teaching him how things work around here. But he does learn fast! He just doesn’t know how Joxters are supposed to be, is all.”

“Go away.”

“Which I think is awful,” Happy remarks, “Joxters need to hurt Snufkins, and Snufkins need to be hurt. Why doesn’t Mama just enjoy himself? It seems so cruel to deny himself…”

You can’t stand a moment more of this. You dart to the side, and spring into a run, your pack bouncing on your back.

“Oh, wait!” He calls after you, and the pursuit begins for a second time.

You crash through underbrush, dart around trees and leap over bushes, but Happy, leggy and surprisingly agile for his emaciated form, remains eerily close behind. Only once you’re shaking from exertion, and panting from need for water, do you realize you haven’t seen, heard or smelled the Snufkin for several minutes.

Your frantic pace slows. You pause. Look around like a deer. Nothing. You allow yourself a moment of triumph - you lost him. And now you can leave this wretched place. Snufkins are naturally curious creatures, but your curiosity is not such that you are willing to meet whatever other things preside here. The moss gathered around trees tells you which direction to turn to in order to go south. Away. Once you are safely away, you will find a way around.

You sip from your canteen and try to ignore how your hands shake.

 _He did nothing to you,_ you remind yourself. You are safe. You shook him off. Now that Happy is nowhere nearby, you try to convince yourself it was nothing. But you think of the wounds gouged across his body like he’s a chew toy, and you think of his glittering manic eyes, and part of you feels as if the sun will never chase away the cold under your ribs.

_I’m afraid you’ve become part of the story._

Shivering, you continue on. The day wanes; a blanket of darkness slowly stifles the woods. Exhausted, you settle at the trunk of a tree, and pull some almonds from your pack. As you nibble their salty exteriors, your eyes rove around the growing shadows. Rarely do you feel unsafe in the wilderness, but you’re not far enough away to feel comfortable. What if that Snufkin finds you? What if something else does first?

Still, the night is only growing deeper, and if you continue on, you will only get lost. So you curl up on your side and prop your bag under your head as a pillow, brushing off a few ants hunting for snacks. In the morning you’ll continue. In the morning…

Your eyes blink open.

A light fog dusts the woods. The sun has barely risen. At first, you don’t know why you woke. You shift, try to sit up. Something snags your wrists and pins you down again.

Instantly, your heart races. This is bad. It’s an instinctual, animalistic terror that seizes you. You do not like being tied up, unaware of what’s going on.

Something shifts beside you.

“Stay down, dear,” the something says, then coughs wetly.

You twist and squirm in place, instantly sweating despite the morning chill. He’s tied you up. Your wrists, and you realize a second later, your ankles -

Your breath comes fast and short. You’re trussed up like a pig for slaughter.

“Stay down,” the something repeats, and then he shifts into your field of view. His pale eyes are cooly arrogant above thin lips curling up into a smirk. He somehow, terrifyingly, looks both as if he’s a second away from falling asleep or from murdering you, and he hasn’t decided which he prefers more. “If you struggle, you may only tangle yourself up more,” he tells you kindly, but it’s all wrong. “And we wouldn’t want you hurting yourself before the fun starts, would we?”

“Let me go,” you force out somehow, but it sounds high and tinny.

“Oh, no,” he replies, whiskers lifting with amusement. “Why would I do that?”

You have to get away. You have to get out of these ropes, first. Your wrists chafe against them as you writhe.

He coughs into his scarf, and blood flecks his lips. Still his eyes dance. Just like Happy, you feel there’s something wrong inside him, something mentally and physically off. You are not safe, not at all. “Just the weather,” he answers your look placidly. “Now, don’t tear your wrists open yet, hm? You’ll get Bendy’s attention on you a little too early. He’s on his way, you know.”

No. No you don’t want to meet whatever that thing is - you don’t want whatever’s going to happen.

"Shh," he susurrates. "I will wait with you... I will give you company, dear..." He strokes your shoulder; you cower. He entirely lacks empathy. It is as if the idea never crosses his mind.

“Please,” you gasp, as if there is anything you can appeal to.

“He won’t eat you yet,” the Joxter purrs to you, as if to be reassuring, “Not until Happy and my beloved Foxter have had their turns…. And me, too, of -“ he pauses, lifts his head. His whiskers twitch. His tongue swipes up the spot of blood on his lip. “Ah, yes. They’re nearly here.”

The look he gives you is disturbingly soft, and that's what frightens you the most. He can act so gentle, so loving, and yet be nothing at all like that. There's unadulterated evil in him, and it terrifies you he can tie you up, speak so sweetly, while he's planning something - something horrible for you. 

“I’m afraid,” the Joxter said, as shapes begin to emerge from the fog, “this is where your story ends.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have Plans to write a second chapter but it will Take Some Serious Time.


End file.
